What Dreams May Come
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: Second scary Halloween story, because I couldn't resist! XD Batman is fear gassed by Scarecrow and wakes up to find that he's a patient in an Arkham Asylum run by the inmates. Is it a Halloween prank, a fear gas hallucination, or has Batman always been crazy all along? Thanks to blackcat9517 for the suggestion. :-)
1. Chapter 1

**What Dreams May Come**

Batman hated Halloween.

He hated seeing people wandering around in cheap replicas of his costume everywhere. He hated seeing people dressing up like his enemies as if they were some form of joke. But most of all, he hated that he would have to spend the night being vigilant of yet another Scarecrow scheme.

Regular as clockwork, every year Professor Jonathan Crane had a scheme to fear gas Gotham in some way. The other rogues left him to it – one day out of the year wasn't worth fighting over. And Crane prided himself on being the physical embodiment of the holiday, the personification of Halloween and everything it stood for – the triumph of fear. He lived for this night of the year more than any other, Batman knew that.

Which was why Batman was crouched on a gargoyle in the pouring rain, his eyes scanning the slick streets, gradually emptying of trick-or-treaters as the night grew darker.

He sighed, glancing up at the full moon hidden in the drizzle of clouds. On nights like this, when the chill of the rain trickled through the cracks in his armor and made him shiver as the coldness crept under his skin, he often wondered how he had come to this. Obviously the tragedy of his parents' death had inspired him to fight crime, but to do it like this, out in the cold and wind and rain wearing a costume while searching for other costumed freaks, sometimes seemed objectively ridiculous. When he had all the money in the world, when he could pay to put more cops on the street, or even form his own law enforcement branch or strike team, he often wondered why he felt the need to combat crime as just one man in a mask.

The reason was mostly because the desire felt personal, and he didn't want others needlessly dragged into his vendetta against crime, getting hurt by bad people the way his parents had been for his sake. But one man could only do so much against the evil of the world. And somewhere inside him, Batman feared, and knew, it would never be enough.

He shook off the rain and his gloomy thoughts, drawing his cape about him as he scanned the streets again. Rumors had been going around that Crane would strike at the Elliot Memorial Hospital – gassing a bunch of helpless patients to make them hallucinate their deepest fears seemed just like the sick sort of thing Crane would enjoy. Batman wondered briefly, as he always did about his enemies, how a mind got that messed up – how the events of a life could conspire to break a man's mind, through the experiences he had and the way he reacted to them. Of course some people might accuse Batman of being as crazy as the people he fought – he had had that accusation leveled at him many times. But Batman knew in his heart that he wasn't crazy, that the difference between him and his enemies was that he used his powers to do good and help others, rather than harm them. Well, it was true he harmed the occasional street thug, and the supercriminals repeatedly, but they deserved it by continuing to try to hurt other people. Batman saw himself as a dispenser of justice, and that was justice – inflicting the same harm on them that they would happily inflict on others.

He grappled across the rooftops, heading toward the hospital. He landed on the roof, cutting through the lock on the skylight and then heading through it into the building. In the attic of the hospital, old machines and equipment were stored, casting weird shadows in the moonlight. Batman's eyes scanned the darkness, looking around for some sign of life…

And then he gasped suddenly as he was struck across the back of the head with a lead pipe. Whirling around to face his attacker, he was met with a huge cloud of yellow gas, choking him. He gasped and coughed, just able to make out the grinning face of Scarecrow through the haze.

"A very happy Halloween to you, Batman," he murmured. "I think you'll enjoy my extra strength toxin very much – it slips through the conscious cracks of the mind and brings the submerged terrors and fears of the subconscious, those terrors and fears we're too scared to even admit, let alone confront, clawing to the surface of the brain in stark reality. And nothing your mind can do can break you out of the vision – especially not a mind as broken as yours."

Batman fell to the ground, the shadows whirling and spinning around him. His vision began to conjure up strange forms in the darkness, familiar and yet unfamiliar, uncanny in his inability to recognize people he knew. The uncertain forms began to shuffle toward him, grasping at him, clawing at him, their faces welcoming one instant and in the next transformed into hideous ghouls, faces of the dead eaten away by maggots, the faces of his parents that he loved twisted into demons, demons with glowing eyes and bat wings. He kept gasping for breath, coughing, choking on the fetid air of the hospital which seemed to taste of death and decay and eternal darkness…

"Dr. Crane, what on earth are you doing?" snapped a voice.

Batman slowly opened his eyes, blinking, to a bright, sterile light. He had obviously passed out from Crane's fear gas attack, and had been taken to a hospital, he thought, looking at the clean white walls and ceilings, and the standard issue bed. But this wasn't the Elliot Memorial Hospital where he had passed out, he realized, recognizing the architecture of the room even as he recognized it as a medical facility. This was Arkham Asylum.

And Batman received a second shock to see the person standing by his bed. It was the Scarecrow, Jonathan Crane, dressed not in his usual costume, but in a doctor's uniform and lab coat, looking down his glasses at him and making some notes on a clipboard he carried. Crane turned at the voice in the doorway, coming from a figure hidden in shadow.

"I was just checking on Mr. Wayne's condition…" began Crane.

"No, you were worsening Mr. Wayne's condition by trying out your controversial fear therapy method on him," snapped the voice. "We've talked about this, Crane. While your theories may be sound, I simply cannot allow you to experiment on the lunatics like this. They are very sick people, and they need care and rest, not to be frightened half to death by your homemade fear toxin!"

"But you always try out _your_ experimental therapy methods on Mr. Wayne," snapped Crane. "And so do most of the others…"

"I have a lot more faith in Dr. Isley's herbal remedies and Dr. Tetch's mind machines than I do in your obsession with frightening lunatics half to death," retorted the voice. "Hell, I even have more faith in Dr. Nygma's ridiculous conundrums – at least they only annoy the patients rather than actively harm them!"

"They must be harmed a little before they can get better," retorted Crane. "Pain is a great teacher – it makes the human mind stronger, and can sometimes provide the needed jolt to break it out of madness…"

"Or to break it entirely," finished the voice. "Mr. Wayne is in this mess because the pain he suffered from his parents' death had such a jolting effect on his mind. Now he needs rest and relaxation and caring, gentle, positive therapy. So no more fear toxin, Crane, or I'm going to have to demand your resignation."

Crane's face twisted into an expression of annoyance, but he muttered, "Very well. As you wish, Doctor."

"Thank you. Now if you'll just leave Dr. Quinzel and me to assess the patient and make sure he's not too shaken from his latest fear gas attack."

Crane nodded, heading for the door. Batman's mind was in a whirl of confusion – he didn't have the slightest idea what was going on, or why his enemies were playing doctor, or how they seemed to know he was Bruce Wayne. It had to be some horrible Halloween prank – the inmates had taken over Arkham Asylum and were pretending they were in charge and he was the lunatic. That had to be it. He needed to hurry up and get out of here and set things right.

He tried to move, but found that he was strapped down to the bed. He fought against the restraints, but they held tight, as he recognized a familiar figure entering the room. Although she too was dressed how Batman had first seen her, as a respectable psychiatrist rather than as Joker's sidekick, Harley Quinn.

"Harley, get me out of this right now!" he snapped.

"Mr. Wayne, please calm down before you hurt yourself," she said, gently. "You're safe now – there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. And how many times must I ask you to call me Dr. Quinzel?"

"It's no worse than what he calls me, Harley," sighed the voice who had spoken to Crane, coming from the man who now approached Batman, and who Batman stared at it in horror. He knew this man – this man no longer had a clown face and a horrible, grinning smile, but he was unmistakable, even with his inexplicable transformation back into a normal-looking human being.

"Joker," he gasped.

"That's right, Mr. Wayne," sighed Joker, who wasn't dressed like himself either – he wore a sensible lab coat over a green shirt and a purple tie. "If it helps for you to call me the Joker, you can. Just like you want me to call you Batman, isn't that right?"

"I…I _am_ Batman," stammered Batman. "And I don't know what the hell is going on, but whatever horrible trick you're playing, this isn't funny!"

"No, Mr. Wayne," murmured Joker. "No, it's not. Your mental illness is no laughing matter to me, nor are your delusions. You are a very sick man, and everyone here is just trying to help you get better."

" _You_ help _me_?" demanded Batman. "That's not a funny joke either, Joker! I'm not the crazy one here – you are!"

"Dr. J, he's getting agitated again," spoke up Harley. "Perhaps a sedative is called for?"

"Yes, I think so, Dr. Quinzel," agreed Joker. "We'll speak again soon, Mr. Wayne, when you've had time to recover from your little fright by Dr. Crane. But please rest assured that everyone in here is your friend, not your enemies, and we are all trying to help cure you. And I have every hope that you can be cured, Mr. Wayne. I have every hope that you can kill this demon inside you, this demon that you created out of your own delusions and your inability to cope with seeing your parents murdered in front of your eyes. I have every hope that with our help, you can kill the Batman."

"What…" began Batman, but Harley had injected him with something that made his brain suddenly relax and his body go numb, and in an instant, the world went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh, Dr. J! Oh! Oh, yes! Oh, right there! Oh my God, you're incredible! Oh! Oh! Oh! Yes, Dr. J! Yes! OOOOOOHHH YEEEEEESSS!"

"Jesus Christ, Harley, you're lucky he's sedated – you're loud enough to wake the dead!"

"Sorry, Dr. J…you're just so good!"

These were the words and noises that unpleasantly assaulted Batman as he gradually woke up. He looked around drowsily to see that he was still confined in the bed in Arkham, and the sounds he heard were coming from the medical supplies closet in the corner of the room.

"Oh, Dr. J, you sure know how to show a girl a good time!" sighed Harley's voice.

"Thank you, Harley, but if we're to keep…carrying on like this, you have to be more careful," muttered Joker. "If people found out about our affair, here in the hospital, in front of the patients, it would be considered very unprofessional. So please try to be discreet."

"Sure thing, puddin'. I mean, Dr. J. I mean, Doctor Joker."

"Yes, I suppose I need to get used to being called that eventually," sighed Joker, as the closet door opened. "Mr. Wayne doesn't show any signs of dropping that particular delusion anytime soon."

Joker and Harley emerged from the closet, still looking very normal despite their rumpled clothes and mussed hair. "Oh…Mr. Wayne, you're awake!" exclaimed Joker, hurriedly fixing his clothes and hair. "I thought Dr. Quinzel gave you a sedative that would have you out for…some time," he muttered, glaring at Harley.

"Sorry, puddin'…I mean Dr. J," corrected Harley. "I thought I gave him more than enough of the drug."

"You think I don't know that you two are together?" asked Batman. "You've never exactly been subtle about it."

"Well, there's no need to be around the lunatics," retorted Joker, shrugging. "Nobody's going to believe them. But it would be grossly unprofessional if any normal people found out about it."

"Everyone kinda knows," retorted Batman. "So sorry, cat's outta the bag."

"Maybe in your deluded mind, Mr. Wayne," sighed Joker. "Who knows what visions have gone on in your head? You still have these hallucinations, don't you, about being a hero who dresses up in a bat costume and saves Gotham from crime?"

"They're not hallucinations," growled Batman. "I'm Batman. You know that. And that's what I do every night."

"You save the lives of other innocent people because you couldn't save your parents," said Joker, nodding. "A strange kind of transference, isn't it, Mr. Wayne?"

"I'm not going to subject myself to any diagnosis of yours, Joker," snapped Batman. "Just tell me what this sick joke is all about. Why are you pretending to be doctors?"

"We're not pretending anything, Mr. Wayne," replied Joker. "You're the only one here who's pretending to be something he's not, with this Batman character."

"He's not a character!" snapped Batman.

"Very well, this secret identity, alternate personality, call it what you will," retorted Joker. "It's very common for lunatics to create alter egos for themselves, either as a form of wish fulfillment or as a way of giving themselves permission to do things their conscious self would find abhorrent. But to have another personality absolves themselves from the responsibility of their own actions. I think your Batman is a mixture of both – he's a hero who could have saved your parents in another life, and a dark force you can hold responsible for all your violent tendencies toward your doctors and everyone else."

"Are you honestly lecturing me about violent tendencies?" demanded Batman. "And all this psycho-babble – Harley must have filled you in on her training, huh?"

"Yes, who is Dr. Quinzel in your deluded fantasies?" asked Joker. "A psychiatrist who fell madly in love with the Joker and gave up her career to become his deranged and adoring sidekick, Harley Quinn, isn't that right?"

"Well, he's half right – I am kinda crazy about you, Dr. J," sighed Harley, kissing him.

"Indeed, Mr. Wayne is half right about many things," murmured Joker. "That half is his sane, conscious self. The delusional half comes from the Batman side. The half that makes me into a clown…"

"You _are_ a clown!" snapped Batman. "I don't know how you've hidden it with makeup, but that's what you really look like! You had an accident – fell into some acid that deformed you like that forever!"

Joker smiled. "Would you like to see why you identify me with a clown, Mr. Wayne?" he murmured. "Again, you are half right in your assessment."

He buzzed for some orderlies to unchain and restrain Batman – Batman recognized them as some of Joker's henchmen, only furthering his belief that this was some sort of elaborate gag. The orderlies dragged him down the corridors of Arkham until they arrived at a cell that read _Bruce Wayne_ on the door.

Batman vaguely wondered how they had got a name plaque up so quickly before he was shoved inside his cell, and looked around to see clowns everywhere. The walls of his cell were plastered with them from floor to ceiling, along with smiley faces and inspirational quotes and random messages of positive thinking.

"Dr. Quinzel and I are proponents of what we call positive thinking therapy," said Joker, gesturing around. "The theory is very simple – a mind which has been irreparably depressed by traumatic events and experiences needs to be filled with positive thoughts and images of happiness. If one is constantly bombarded by these things, the eventual gloomy, depressing thoughts will be replaced with happy ones, and a positive, can-do attitude about life."

"Right. And that's why I associate you and her with clowns, is that it?" asked Batman, sarcastically. "Come on, Joker – this isn't a very credible or funny joke. Why don't you just skip to the ridiculous punchline?"

"Bruce?" said a familiar voice from the neighboring cell.

Batman was astonished. "Dick?" he gasped, rushing to the window. "Oh my God – he got you too? How? And Tim!" he exclaimed, glancing at the cell across the corridor from his. "How did he find you? How did he figure out that you were Robin?!"

"Robin?" repeated Dick Grayson, staring blankly back at him. "Who's Robin?"

Batman gaped at him. "You know who Robin is," he murmured. "What's Joker done to you to make you forget?"

"I haven't done anything to Mr. Grayson – he's not my patient, he's Dr. Tetch's," retorted Joker. "You and Mr. Grayson got into a feud several months ago, and you declared him no longer your Robin, which we think is some sidekick of your Batman that you now associate with Mr. Drake," he said, nodding across the corridor.

"And Jason?" demanded Batman. "How do you explain away Jason Todd?"

Joker's face fell. "Jason Todd," he murmured. "Such a very tragic case."

"Don't remember, puddin' – it's only gonna upset you again," cooed Harley, cuddling him gently.

"Upset him?" repeated Batman, incredulously. "He beat him to death with a crowbar!"

"Is that really what you think?" murmured Joker. "Is that really how your deluded mind processed what happened? I must say, I wish I could share your ability to twist reality to spare yourself pain."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Batman.

"Jason Todd," murmured Joker. "He was brought to Arkham a few months ago. A very difficult case, a very violent, aggressive patient…no therapy appeared to work, no doctor could help him, but we kept trying…one night he had an uncontrollable, mad fit of rage and started slamming his skull against the cell door in a desperate attempt to break out. The guards came and got me quickly, we subdued him before he could injure himself further, but he had fractured his skull and needed immediate medical attention. He wouldn't survive long with the way he was bleeding, certainly not a trip to the hospital, and as I had trained as a surgeon initially, I took the risk and operated on him. And I lost him," he murmured, tears in his green eyes. "I will never forgive myself for that."

"So this is more of my half-truths, is it?" demanded Batman. "You _are_ partially responsible for Jason's death because you couldn't save him, but I've interpreted him beating his skull into the bars as you beating his brains out with a crowbar, huh?"

"That appears to be the case," agreed Joker. "If you want me to apologize for failing to save Mr. Todd, I will. I blame myself entirely for his death."

"No, puddin', don't," cooed Harley. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was!" roared Batman. "You killed him, Joker! You did it on purpose, and you laughed while you did it! Because you're a sick, twisted monster, an insane psychopath, not me! I'm Batman!"

"Who's Batman?" asked Dick, still looking confused.

"Dick, don't say that," said Batman, turning to him. "You know who Batman is, you know who Robin is, he's just done something to you to make you forget. Or…or the Mad Hatter has mind controlled you or something."

"Ah, again, because Mr. Grayson is Dr. Tetch's patient, you blame the identity you've created for him as having brainwashed your friend," said Joker, nodding. "You are very consistent for a lunatic, Mr. Wayne, I'll give you that."

"I am not a lunatic!" shouted Batman.

"No," sighed Joker. "Lunatics never think they are, do they?"

He shook his head. "Get some rest, Mr. Wayne," he said, heading off down the corridor with Harley following. "We'll have another therapy session tomorrow, and hopefully make some progress."

The moment they were gone, Batman turned back to Dick. "Dick, you've gotta wake up," he said. "Whatever he's done to you…we've gotta get outta here!"

"There's no way out, Bruce," sighed Dick, sadly. "Not until we're cured."

"Dick, you can't believe their lies!" hissed Batman. "This is all some sick game, trust me…"

The cell door opened again. "Supper time, Master Bruce," said a familiar voice.

Batman gaped at the figure in the Arkham uniform who placed a tray down in his cell. "Alfred?" he gasped. "How…he got you too?"

"Sir?" asked Alfred, puzzled.

"Alfred, it's me!" exclaimed Batman.

"Yes, I know who you are, Master Bruce," said Alfred, nodding. "I've been serving you your meals here for the past ten years."

"Ten years?" repeated Batman. "No…no, you're my family butler! You live with me in Wayne Manor!"

"No, sir," said Alfred, gently. "You left Wayne Manor ten years ago to come here. Voluntarily. You sought help for the demons that afflicted you – your pain and guilt at your parents' passing. Dr…Joker, as you call him, has been trying to treat you ever since, to no avail. But he never gives up hope. Such a positive, cheerful man, and a pleasure to work for," added Alfred, heading for the door.

"Good old Alfred," sighed Dick as the door shut. "Always treats us like royalty with all that 'sir' and 'master' stuff. He really respects us, which not all the employees do. I can see why Dr. Joker has kept him on staff for so long."

Batman stared at the shut door. "No," he gasped. "No, no, no, this is all wrong, Dick! None of this makes any sense!"

"Why do you expect sense in a madhouse, Bruce?" asked Dick, shrugging. "We're all mad here, y'know."

Batman looked around at all the grinning clown faces surrounding him, and for a moment wondered if he truly was.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne – how are we feeling today?" asked Joker as Batman was dragged into one of the larger offices in Arkham. Joker wasn't alone – he was seated in the room with several other of Batman's antagonists. Crane was there, dressed in the same sensible style as yesterday. Jervis Tetch looked the same, except he wasn't wearing his usual Victorian-style clothing and top hat. Edward Nygma wore a green shirt and tie under his labcoat, but there wasn't a question mark in sight. And Poison Ivy looked completely different – her skin had lost its green tint, and she was dressed modestly, her red hair put up in a sensible bun and green eyes studying him clinically behind a pair of glasses. Whatever illusion Joker had managed on his own appearance he must have also managed with her, thought Batman, as he was led to a chair in the center of the room and restrained.

"I'm feeling fine," growled Batman. "But I see you're still continuing with your stupid joke."

"Trying to cure you isn't a joke, Mr. Wayne," retorted Joker.

"It is at this point, Dr. Joker," said Ivy, rolling her eyes. "If indeed I must keep calling you that. Why can't we use your real name?"

"I've told you, Pamela, we need to entertain the harmless aspects of his delusion," sighed Joker. "Pull away all the layers at once and his mind will snap completely."

"Well, he's not calling me Poison Ivy again," retorted Ivy. "I refuse to allow that. I'm a woman doctor, I earned my title in a society and a profession where most men are against me, and he's damn well going to address me as Dr. Isley! But then I suppose you can't expect respect for female doctors from a male patient," she sighed.

"Dr. Quinzel's a female doctor too," retorted Joker.

"Yes, and we all know how she got employed, don't we, Dr. J?" asked Ivy, sarcastically. "With you as head doctor here, I'll bet hiring her wasn't a hard decision for you to make. A decision made not with your brain, but rather with some other organ of yours."

"I'm not sure what you're implying, Dr. Isley," snapped Joker. "Dr. Quinzel was hired on her merits as a psychiatrist, and nothing more."

"Sorry, I'm late, pudd…Dr. J," corrected Harley, entering the room at that moment. "My session with Barbara Gordon took a little longer than usual."

"Barbara Gordon?" repeated Batman. "You've got her in here too?"

"Yes, she's been here almost as long as you have, Mr. Wayne," sighed Joker. "And making as little progress. The accident that took away her ability to walk took its toll on her mind, and at the moment it seems almost as permanently damaged as her spine."

"Accident?" said Batman, incredulously. "You shot her!"

Joker shook his head. "I did not, Mr. Wayne. It's true I administered the shot that inadvertently did the deed, but through a hypodermic syringe, rather than a gun. How could I have known that her body would react to the medication by paralyzing itself? It was a completely unknown side effect until very recently, and I am very sorry about it, but there's nothing that could have been done to prevent it."

"Stop it!" shouted Batman, trying to stand up, but the restraints held him down. "Stop lying and trying to shift responsibility away from the atrocities you've committed! You're a horrible, murdering psychopath who delights in chaos and destruction, so stop pretending to be anything else!"

"See? Hopeless," sighed Ivy.

"Has he been responding to the herbal remedies at all, Dr. Isley?" asked Joker.

"No," retorted Ivy. "Just flings them back in my face and accuses me of trying to poison him and Gotham. Once he accused me of trying to seduce him – that was rich! As if any shrink would be so unprofessional as to sleep with a patient!"

"You mean like Harley?" demanded Batman.

"I haven't slept with any patients, Mr. Wayne!" snapped Harley.

"No, she certainly hasn't!" agreed Crane, angrily. "Dr. Quinzel is the pinnacle of virtue and professionalism! How dare you assume an attractive woman like her has to be a loose woman as well, Mr. Wayne!"

"Anyway, Harley's too busy with Dr. Joker to ever get involved with a patient," snapped Ivy. "They're at it like rabbits."

"How dare you, Dr. Isley?" demanded Crane, as both Joker and Harley looked slightly uncomfortable. "Is this how women behave when they get in positions of power – they tear each other down with slanderous accusations?"

"No, it's men who tear us down!" shrieked Ivy. "All the time!"

"Ok, everyone, calm down!" snapped Joker. "Dr. Tetch, how are your treatments for Mr. Wayne coming along?"

"Well, limited success so far," sighed Tetch. "Every time I design a new machine, he accuses me of trying to control his mind. Which I suppose I am in a way – I believe mental problems are merely physical deformities in the way the brain is structured. To correct these, we must correct the root cause by actually examining and then changing these brainwaves. Anyway, he seems to think that my machines are some kind of mind-controlling hat, hence my identity in his head as the Mad Hatter."

"And those Alice in Wonderland posters all over your office don't help either," agreed Ivy. "Can't you make him take those down, Dr. Joker?"

"I don't see the harm in someone's office being decorated with the things that make them happy," retorted Joker. "If Mr. Wayne didn't identify Dr. Tetch as the Mad Hatter, I'm sure his deluded brain would just come up with another identity for him."

"I also make Mr. Wayne recite Carroll's poetry as a sort of mental warm up before our sessions," sighed Tetch. "Nothing so good for the mind as memorization and recitation, especially of poetry, I find, and Carroll is obviously the world's best poet. So I'm afraid the connection is fairly inevitable."

"Yes, good excuses from everyone," muttered Batman. "What about you, Nygma?" he demanded, glaring at the man he knew as the Riddler. "Let me guess – I interpret your questions to me as riddles because they're really difficult for me to answer."

"No, I actually do ask you riddles," retorted Nygma. "Tetch believes in poetry and memorization for expanding the mind – I believe a truly elasticated mind is the only kind that can ever be cured, and so to give you that elasticity, I ask you riddles and brainteasers."

"We don't condone Dr. Nygma's methods particularly," said Joker. "Most of us think they're a waste of time. But frankly we're willing to try anything at this point. Everybody here is at their wits end trying to cure the Batman. It's been so many years, and there have been so many doctors coming and going, trying new methods and failing repeatedly. There was Dr. Jones, who brought in his controversial pets for reptile therapy. There was Dr. Wesker, who tried his method of having you talk to a doll, which he thought would be less frightening than a psychiatrist. There was Dr. Karlo, who tried to appease your dual personality by pretending to be different people you could talk to every week. Each and every one you accused of being some sort of madman or monster, gave a ridiculous alter ego to, and refused to cooperate."

"Remember poor Dr. Fries?" sighed Tetch. "He thought exposure to extremes of temperature could help cure madness, until his poor wife got ill and he left to take care of her."

"And Dr. Cobblepot," said Ivy, nodding. "Frankly I preferred his penguin therapy to Dr. Jones's reptile therapy. At least the penguins didn't try to eat you."

"No, this is all nonsense!" shouted Batman. "None of those people are doctors, just like none of you are doctors! I don't know why you've gone through all the trouble of making up all these ridiculous lies, but just get to the damn punchline!"

"He's obsessed with this all being a joke," sighed Harley.

"That's because he thinks I'm behind it all," muttered Joker. "He can't accept the truth – that he's the lunatic here and I am his doctor, trying to help him."

Joker knelt down in front of Batman. "Am I the problem?" he asked, quietly. "If I go away, leave you alone, if I show you that your situation has nothing to do with me, will you be able to cure yourself then? Or is the Joker buried too deeply in the Batman's identity for that? Would it destroy you if you lost him?"

"I don't need you, Joker," retorted Batman. "You've been claiming that for a long time, but trust me, if you died tomorrow, I couldn't care less."

Joker nodded slowly. "All right," he said, straightening up. "I will leave you alone, Mr. Wayne. For now, we will all leave you alone, and not attempt to cure you anymore. And maybe when you finally realize that these people are not your enemies, and we're all just trying to help you, you'll stop fighting us. You'll see that the real enemy is here, inside you," he said, touching Batman's forehead. "The Batman."

He buzzed for the guards. "Take him back to his cell," he said. "And nobody disturb him anymore. Focus on your other patients, Tetch, you've got Grayson, Harley, you focus on Miss Gordon, Dr. Isley on Miss Kyle, Nygma, you've got Drake, and Crane, you have Miss Gordon's father. Concentrate on them, and do not disturb Mr. Wayne whatever happens. We will leave him alone with Batman, so he can see who the real monster is here. The one he's created inside his head."

"Joker, stop this sick game now!" shouted Batman as the guards entered. "Let the others go!"

"It's not a game, Mr. Wayne," murmured Joker. "And the only one who can stop it is you. I know you can, I have faith in you. I believe in you."

He held up a hand to detain the guards who restrained Batman. "You don't need the Batman to be a hero, Mr. Wayne," he murmured. "You just need to be yourself. You don't need the Batman at all anymore. Aren't you tired of pretending that's who you are? Night after night you fly from delusion to delusion – it must be so exhausting. You must have done innumerable feats of heroism in your head, and yet you still remain depressed and unhappy. It won't ever end, Mr. Wayne. It's a curse you've inflicted upon yourself because you couldn't save your parents's lives. You created this Batman demon to terrorize yourself, and you punish yourself for their deaths every time you let him take control of your mind. Please stop punishing yourself, Bruce. Please try to be free of the Batman. You must be as tired of fighting him as I am. Please just stop. Please let it end. For all our sakes."

Joker was gazing at him pleadingly, tears in his green eyes again. Batman couldn't respond – he had never seen the Joker looking sincere before. He had never known Joker could even act sincere. Batman was dragged off still staring back at him, back at all the faces of his doctors or his enemies who looked equally dispirited and exhausted. And when he was returned to his cell, he glanced in the mirror surrounded by clown pictures to see the same look in his own face.

He curled up on his bed, most of his mind still fighting against this delusion or prank, but an increasingly large part of him wondering whether this was real, and whether Joker was right. This madness had been going on a long time now. Maybe it was time to give up the fight.


	4. Chapter 4

The nights passed. At least, Batman thought they did – it was hard to tell night from day in Arkham, if he actually was in Arkham rather than stuck in some perpetual delusion of Scarecrow's fear toxin. He heard activity going on in the asylum – his neighboring cell doors being opened as his fellow patients went to their therapy sessions and then returned. But he was left completely alone, as promised.

The time passed slowly. Batman had only his own confused thoughts to preoccupy himself with, and as he lay in the dark, his fears began to crowd around him. His fears that this was no delusion after all – that the delusion had been his reality as Batman, which he had always thought of as real up until now. But this reality seemed equally real to him. It could be Scarecrow's extra strength toxin was affecting his brain more than usual, that it gave him prolonged visions impossible to separate from reality. But in the back of his mind the ultimate fear gnawed away at him – the fear that everything Dr. Joker had said was true, that Bruce Wayne was mad, and Batman was his own worst enemy that he nevertheless depended upon. The focus of his madness, but also his only relief from his unendurable misery. Batman was both a punishment and a pleasure, the focal point of his insanity and the only thing that kept him sane. Batman might be a delusion, but it was a delusion he needed to live. Otherwise he would have to face the reality, his true reality and identity – he was Bruce Wayne, a scared, frightened little boy who had witnessed his parents's murder and been driven insane by it. Everything else was a lie. His whole life was a lie. Batman was a lie.

These dark, brooding, terrible thoughts crowded him as he lay awake at night, moonlight streaming through the bars on his small cell window. From somewhere far off, he thought he heard a clock chime midnight, and vaguely wondered what day it was.

"Happy Halloween, Bruce," said a voice suddenly.

Batman sat up, stunned. He had been ignored so long that any voice was suddenly shocking, especially when it came from inside his cell, and next to his bed. He turned and started back when he saw a very familiar figure.

"Harvey?" he gasped.

Harvey Dent, otherwise known as Two-Face, sat next to Batman's bed. He looked the way Batman remembered him, after the accident, his face and identity split in two. He sat staring at Batman calmly, flipping a coin repeatedly in his hand.

Batman's shock slowly turned to relief at finally recognizing someone as Batman knew him. "Harvey!" he repeated. "God…I never thought I'd be so happy to see you! I mean, you as Two-Face…you as someone I actually recognize! This proves I'm not crazy, if Two-Face is who you really are…"

Two-Face didn't reply – he just kept looking at him and flipping his coin. "Harvey?" repeated Batman.

"Harvey Dent's dead, Bruce," murmured Two-Face. "He died ten years ago tonight."

"Dead?" repeated Batman. "No, he…he got burned and became Two-Face and…you're right here, Harvey…"

"No, I'm not, Bruce," he murmured. "Not really. You just see me every year on this day, the anniversary of my death, the Long Halloween. I've been dead for ten years. The accident that burned my face…it killed me, Bruce."

Batman stared at him. "I don't understand…" he stammered. "I don't understand anything…"

"You saw your parents murdered in front of your eyes when you were eight, Bruce," murmured Two-Face. "That took its toll on your sanity. You never fully recovered from that, but you did your best to put on a brave face, with the help of your best friend, Harvey Dent, of course. The two of you vowed to help clean up Gotham together, so that what happened to your parents would never happen to anyone else. You donated most of your fortune to get more cops on the street, and to sponsor Harvey's election campaign, and Harvey became District Attorney. He kept his promise. He started cleaning up the crime infestation in Gotham. But the infestation fought back. Harvey got attacked one day in court while prosecuting a mob boss – acid was thrown in his face, melting it in two…and killing him. Harvey died that day in the courtroom, Bruce. You once again had to watch someone you loved being horribly murdered in front of your very eyes, watch their dying gasps and screams of pain, and were once again powerless to help them. And that's when you truly snapped, Bruce. You came to Arkham ten years ago because you knew you couldn't cope with reality anymore. You needed to be locked up and safe from the world, so it couldn't hurt you ever again. You needed to be someone else than Bruce Wayne, the poor victim of crime who had everyone he ever cared about taken away from him. So you created Batman. You became Batman. But it's all in your mind, Bruce."

Two-Face leaned forward. "I haunt you every day – the sight of my split face burns into your memory. You only see half-truths because of it. That day in the courtroom, my face was split in two, but _your_ mind was. That's the day you created Batman. You can't tell fiction from reality anymore, and I guess maybe they are only two sides of the same coin," he said, holding the coin out to him. "Heads, you're Bruce Wayne, tails, you're Batman. Just flip the coin to decide which one you're gonna be tonight."

Batman stared back at him. "Then…I am crazy. That's what you're telling me. This is the reality, and my other life…the one I always thought was real…that's all a delusion?"

"A dream," agreed Two-Face, nodding. "A dream that you want so desperately to be real that you make enemies of anyone who tries to wake you up from it. You turn your doctors into monsters in your mind, because Batman needs monsters. He needs to fight. Or he would have nothing left but poor Bruce Wayne, unloved and alone. Not a hero. Just a sad, pathetic man locked up in a madhouse."

Batman was silent. "Can I go back to the dream, Harvey?" he asked.

"Sure," said Two-Face, shrugging. "Easy enough to fall back asleep. But you know the truth now. I don't blame you for preferring the illusion."

He stood up. "I'll see you around, old friend," he murmured. "I think you deserve a rest from ghosts tonight. There must be so many in Batman's head."

"Harvey, no, don't leave," said Batman. "I…I don't wanna be alone again…"

Two-Face smiled sadly. "You're never alone, Bruce," he murmured. "You carry us with you always. Look," he said, nodding toward the bars of Batman's cell. He turned to see the figures of his parents standing there, gazing at him tenderly. "You're haunted by us forever," murmured Two-Face. "And that's why the Batman can never die. That's why nothing your enemies can do in your mind, no matter how cleverly you invent their schemes, can kill you. Until you're free of the ghosts, you'll never be free of the Batman. And you'll never be free of the ghosts. You carry the responsibility for our deaths deep in your heart, so deep that to dig it out would destroy you completely. To lose the Batman would destroy you completely. Much better to remain locked in here forever and enjoy your dreams rather than face reality. As Dr. Joker once said as the insane clown in your head, 'So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought, heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable, remember there's always madness. Madness is the emergency exit… you can just step outside, and close the door on all those dreadful things that happened. You can lock them away… forever.'"

Two-Face clapped Batman on the back and then headed for the cell door to join Bruce's parents on the other side. He walked right through the bars as if they weren't even there, and all three of them began to fade away as if they had never been there at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Batman sat there for some time, gazing at where the ghosts had disappeared. He couldn't think straight – he didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore. At this point, he was fully inclined to believe he had gone mad. And if that were true, if his life as Batman was all a dream, he wanted to get back to it as soon as possible.

He lay down on the bed again, trying to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come, not with his thoughts haunting him like this. At last, after lying awake for what seemed like hours, he must have dropped off, because he suddenly heard the door to his cell slowly creaking open.

"A very happy Halloween to you, Mr. Wayne," murmured a familiar voice.

Batman tried to sit up, but found he had been strapped to the bed, with Dr. Crane standing over him, loading a syringe. "I'm sorry for the rude awakening – you were sleeping so peacefully," said Crane. "But this really must be done now, during the witching hours, so that busybody Dr. Joker can't interfere again. The nerve of that man, telling me what therapy I can and can't do when he lets quacks like Dr. Nygma ask you riddles, of all things!" he muttered. "I don't like Dr. Joker's dismissal of my treatments before I've even had a chance to truly test them. And I don't like the way he looks at Dr. Quinzel – the filthy cad is probably trying to think of some way to seduce that pure, sweet, innocent angel!" he sighed.

He pressed the syringe, sending a stream of yellow liquid shooting out of it. "Now this might sting a little, Mr. Wayne, and you might see some very frightening images. But whatever happens, you must remember that this is all in your mind. A delusion. Ready? Then let's begin."

Crane injected Batman with the needle before he could protest, and Batman felt a stinging, and then a thick fog obscured his vision. A fog in which he saw hundreds of vague shapes, obscure and indistinct images from his past, and probably images from his future. The images swirled and mixed together, and then formed into a solid shape directly in front of his eyes, filling his vision – the shape of a Scarecrow.

"Oh good, you're back," asked Scarecrow, with a smirk. "Did you enjoy the toxin trip, Batman? Tell me what you saw – I am a doctor, you know."

Batman looked around – he was in the attic of the Elliot Memorial Hospital, where he had been attacked by Scarecrow before he started hallucinating…or was this the hallucination? It all looked and felt as real as it had in the dream, if indeed it had been a dream. And he had been injected with fear toxin in both situations, so it was impossible for him to separate which was the true reality, and which the toxin's visions. The fear still lingered in the back of his mind that this was the fantasy, but he supposed he would never be entirely sure. He could only live as he had always done, and trust in his own sanity, whether or not he actually had any.

"Freeze, Crane!" shouted a voice suddenly. Batman looked at the door to see Police Commissioner Gordon with half the GCPD behind him, all pointing guns at Scarecrow. "Thanks for the tip, Batman," said Gordon, nodding at him. "Glad we could be your backup."

"Took you long enough," muttered Batman, standing up slowly.

"Don't try anything funny, scum, or you get a bullet right through the sack face," snapped Detective Bullock at Scarecrow. "And it'll be the last Halloween you ever see."

Scarecrow smiled. "I'll come quietly," he said, holding out his wrists. "I have provided our Caped Crusader with his trick for this evening, although I suspect it wasn't much of a treat for him," he said, grinning at Batman.

As the police came forward to arrest Scarecrow, he murmured to Batman, "But now you know, don't you?"

"Know…what?" demanded Batman.

"What real fears lurk in the darkness of your mind," murmured Crane. "A vision of another life, as equally plausible as this one. And you can never tell yourself the vision was not real. You'll never know. Uncertainty is the cornerstone of fear, Batman. And you will always be uncertain of your own sanity from now on. I have won. I have done what the Joker never could, and made the Batman doubt his sanity. It's been a very good Halloween," he sighed, as the police handcuffed him.

"Get that freak outta here!" snapped Bullock, following the officers who dragged Crane away and down to the police car waiting outside the hospital. "We get him booked early, we might still have time for some trick-or-treating!"

"You ok?" asked Gordon, looking at Batman.

"I'm fine, Jim," muttered Batman. "Just fine."

But as he flew off into the night, alone with his thoughts, he began to question again whether he actually was.

He returned to Wayne Manor to find Alfred busy with trick-or-treaters at the door, so he changed out of his Batman costume himself, dressing in his casual wear. He took a blood sample in order to synthesize an antidote to whatever might remain of Crane's toxin in his bloodstream, and then climbed the steps out of the Batcave and joined Alfred, who had just shut the front door.

"Good night tonight, sir?" asked Alfred, smiling at him. "Did you foil Professor Crane's plot?"

"He's behind bars now," murmured Bruce, looking at his faithful butler. "But I got a taste of his new gas. It's…nasty."

"I do believe that's rather the idea, sir," replied Alfred, dryly. "I'll get to work on an antidote in the Batcave right away, if you'll take over trick-or-treating duty."

He handed Bruce the candy bowl. "Alfred," said Bruce, catching his hand.

"Sir?" asked Alfred, surprised.

"Do you ever think…I might be crazy?" asked Bruce slowly.

Alfred smiled. "Every night, sir," he replied. "But you know, then I see the morning papers the next day reporting on some robbery you foiled, or some murder you prevented, or some heinous felon put behind bars, and I chastise myself for ever questioning you."

Bruce smiled. "Thank you, Alfred," he said, embracing him. "Happy Halloween."

"And to you, sir," said Alfred.

He left Bruce alone, and a moment later, the doorbell rang. Bruce went to answer it. "Trick-or-treat!" shouted the child standing there, dressed in a Batman costume.

Bruce smiled as he dumped some candy into his bucket. "You're a fan of Batman, huh?" he asked.

"Yep," said the child, nodding firmly. "He's my favorite superhero. My older brother likes Superman, but I think he's lame compared to Batman. Superman has all kindsa special powers. Batman just has his determination, but he's still not afraid to fight all kindsa bad guys night after night. He always does what's right no matter how hard it is, and he never gives up, not even when things seem hopeless. He's really cool. I wanna be just like him when I grow up."

"Well, that's…good to hear," said Bruce.

"My Daddy's a cop, and he says people around the station think Batman's some kinda nutcase," continued the child. "But Daddy doesn't. He think he's just a guy who wants to do the right thing, and he says he admires that. Thinks Batman's a good role model. And he bought me this costume so I can be just like him."

"You look just like him," agreed Bruce. "And I'm sure Batman's glad there are people like you and your Daddy out there who believe in him."

"Yeah, the only people who don't believe in him are bad guys," retorted the child. "And I'm never gonna be a bad guy, or Batman will catch me and lock me up in Arkham Asylum, like he does to the Joker and Two-Face and…"

"Jodie, you've taken up enough of Mr. Wayne's time!" called the child's mother from the driveway. "Let's go!"

"Ok, Mom!" called back the child. "Thanks for the candy," the kid said, turning back to Bruce. "Happy Halloween!"

"Happy Halloween," said Bruce, smiling. He shut the door, feeling strangely happy, which was a rare occurrence for him. If Crane's vision was right, he was a man locked up in a madhouse. But right now, he was a hero who inspired others to do good. And even if that persona was an unrealistic as a Halloween costume, even if he wore it only at nights under the influence of fear gas, the fact remained that he was Batman. And real or not, that was a very good person to be.

 **The End**


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